


Root Beer and Blood Oaths

by wallflowerdalek



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, Kink, M/M, Non-Consensual, Ridiculous, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-28
Updated: 2014-07-28
Packaged: 2018-02-10 20:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2038353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallflowerdalek/pseuds/wallflowerdalek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This takes place sometime after Star Trek DS9 Season 6 Episode 3, Sons and Daughters.</p>
<p>I think it's non-con elements are debatable, but adding that in for those with trigger needs <3.</p>
<p> I gave a friend this pairing as a prompt, and then, because I'm bored and also a terrible human being, I took it back. Please don't take it too seriously. It's very silly--in a not-very-silly way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Root Beer and Blood Oaths

One blood, one house.

As if those words really meant anything at all.

Alexander, son of Worf, stood on the Promenade, alone.

He was on Deep Space Nine for the first time since joining the house of Martok, since the tumultuous first journey on the Rotarran. Deep Space Nine was still a little rough from its occupation—broken walls here and there, tubes hanging from the wall, scorch-marks on the floor. But its people were peacefully going about their wartime days, and Alexander, for all his narrow shoulders and hairless face, carried his Klingon brow with not even a glance. The war had changed a great many things—this was one he did not mind.

He watched the assorted station traffic and tried not to think about Klingons. Specifically, the worst Klingon ever, his father.

Worf had promised dinner that night, but there was some emergency or another, and he’d left in a trail of plasma dust and relief. They had almost been friendly by the time Worf was done on the Rotarran, and now, it was as if that time had disappeared. Alexander made a fist, could feel the scar on his palm, faint, from where he had given his blood to the house of Martok. A scar for nothing. Or almost nothing.

He brought his fist down on the banister, the rage in him soaking through his every fiber. He growled at nothing, and turned away. He followed his feet through to the bar, where the despicable Ferengi bartender tried to ply him with bloodwine. It was twice insult, because, despite trying, he had never developed a taste for bloodwine. The sticky thick stuff made him gag. He had developed a taste for gin, back on earth, but he stopped drinking it in public.

“Bartender. I require a Holosuite.”

“Of course, of course. We have a very nice Risa program, just came in. There are females with six—”

“QUIET,” he shouted. “I require one of Lieutenant Commander Worf’s training programs.”

“Eh—those are private. Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer—”

“I am Lieutenant Commander Worf’s son. You WILL give me a Holosuite.”

“Ah—of course,” the disgusting, sniveling bartender nodded and turned to his terminal. “One moment please.”

 

Bat’leth practice calmed his nerves, though he had to turn the difficulty to its lowest setting. Still it left his muscles burning and his chest heaving. He was considering turning it off, had just slain his opponent, when the doors to the Holosuite slid open.

For a brief, brilliant, and horribly embarrassing moment, Alexander thought it was his father, returned already. Would he be full of pride for Alexander’s practicing, or silently disapproving for doing so with the difficulty so low?

Neither. It was the bartender petaQ. No, he realized, squinting; it was another Ferengi.

“D’blok,” he growled. He could never remember what the curse meant, but it came easily from his sweaty lips. “What do you want?”

“Huh, this wasn’t the one I selected. Still, one Klingon is as good as another, isn’t it?” the Ferengi grinned. He was small of stature, even for a Ferengi. He wore a Starfleet uniform. Alexander knew who he was. Everyone had heard of the Ferengi who joined Starfleet. Nog. They had laughed about him on the Rotarran almost as much as they laughed at Alexander.

“What do you want?”

The Ferengi tilted his head. “I wonder if someone modified my program. Usually I have it set to Klingon. Maybe it’s corrupt—you don’t look like any Klingon I’ve met. You’re small.”

Alexander puzzled at him.

“Well, let’s see what they did.” The Ferengi took of his jacket, folded it, and laid it on the ground. Then—then he took off his pants.

“What are you doing?” Alexander shouted. His muscles hurt, but his anger—his outrage—was rising again. What was wrong with this Ferengi targ?

Nog grinned toothily. “Your mother mated with gagh.”

The insult didn’t make any sense, and Alexander should’ve let it go. But this half naked, tiny, impertinent little man had caught him on the wrong day. He stepped forward and, with the end of his blade, hooked the Ferengi’s calf and threw him to the ground.

One of his shipmates had done this to him once. It had been humiliating then. Now, it felt good. Easy. The Ferengi dropped like a cow and lay there.

“Great,” Nog said. He aimed a kick at Alexander, connected a fleeting blow to his shin. Alexander was more insulted than anything, but he kicked the Ferengi back, throwing his body a few inches. Nog grunted and rolled over. The targ was grinning, that insufferable, pointy-toothed grin. There was a flush to his lobes, and—Alexander felt suddenly like vomiting. He was obviously sexually excited as well.

“You’re being pretty easy on me,” he said, licking his teeth. “Computer—safeties on, increase difficulty to Nog-Alpha-Beta.”

The computer chirped in response.

Understanding dawned on Alexander. Maybe he should’ve known already. The Ferengi thought that this was all a computer simulation. The kind where—

Alexander laughed. The Ferengi seemed pleased. “You’re laughing at me?”

“I am. Puny Ferengi. You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

Nog nodded. “I don’t. Why don’t you show me?”

Alexander leaped forward, aiming a fist at the Ferengi’s stomach. The punch was hard enough that the smile left Nog’s stupid face and the air left his impertinent lungs. He coughed and recovered his breath, and then, again, aimed a kick at Alexander. This time, it did not even touch him. Alexander laughed and leaned back.

“Computer,” he said. “Give me a leather strap. Make it…ten centimeters by two meters. Good for hitting.”

Alexander wondered if Nog would clue in on his not being a simulation at that point, but the Ferengi’s eyes were closed. He appeared to be paying attention to something other than Alexander’s words.

The weapons rack on the wall held the strap. Alexander wrapped it around his hand, flexing the supple flesh.

“Stand up,” he ordered. The Ferengi did not move.

“Stand up,” he repeated. The Ferengi twitched a leg, feebily. For a second Alexander worried he had broken him, and the idea that he had killed a Federation shirt sent something like panic through him. They would jail him. His father knew no love of Ferengi, but his love of rules and regulation and the Federation was so much more than his love of his son that they would never speak again.

But the Ferengi was playing dead. He must be.

Alexander took his bat’leth in one hand, keeping the strap in the other. He stepped next to the prone Ferengi, and with the polished blade, he reached down and nicked the man’s ear.

The squeal run out across the tall ceilings and Holosuite walls.

“My lobes! You—” he reached up and brought back fingers kissed with blood. “You cut my beautiful lobes!”

“I said stand,” he tried to snarl the retort, but honestly, he was trying not to laugh.

The Ferengi scrambled to his feet.

Alexander placed the edge of the bat’leth blade against his other lobe. “Walk.”

The man walked. Together they stepped to a chair that sat in the corner.

“Sit,” he commanded.

The Ferengi sat.

“The other way,” he said, annoyed.

Nog looked at Alexander for a moment, confused, and then turned, his legs straddling the straight back of the chair.

Alexander wasn’t sure what the safety level of Nog-Alpha-Beta was, but he would soon find out.

He brought the strap up and and down onto the Ferengi’s back with a sharp, satisfying crack. Nog cried out, but there was no blood.

Good.

He began to beat the Ferengi, the snap of the strap making a rhythm with Nog’s cries of pain and the sharp exhale of Alexander’s breath as he brought his arm down. Eventually Nog’s cries stopped, his shuddering with each strike stopped, and then Alexander, too, stopped. His arm hummed from the effort. The workout, the beautiful strange feeling of beating his loathsome stranger, left him feeling clear-headed and, so strangely, happy.

He could see that Nog was still breathing. No blood was leaking through his shirt. This was good. A body would be difficult to explain.

He circled around to the front of the man. His face was almost peaceful, almost relaxed, though his breathing was ragged. His eyes were closed, his jaw set. His cock stuck between the panels of the chair, stiff and moist through the thin, tight, Federation-regulation underwear he wore. As Alexander stood there, Nog reached an arm down and rubbed the tip through his underwear.

Pathetic. So like a Ferengi, to be at once so ruthless and also weak, like a soft, squishy maggot. Alexander knew at once what he would do.

While Alexander was not exactly without experience, this was a first in many ways. He let his pants fall to the floor. He was somewhat embarrassed to see how excited he was. What kind of a Klingon became aroused by a Ferengi?

This kind.

He woke the Ferengi from his state by sharply smacking his ear. He cried out and opened his eyes. He grinned a ragged grin, and then his eyes widened as he stared at Alexander’s sex.

“What happened to it?”

What—? Alexander was momentarily speechless.

“That is s-some programming error. They don’t look like that.”

“Insolent slug,” Alexander said. He had attempted to roar, but it lacked confidence. “This is a Klingon penis! This is how we look.”

“I couldn’t find any pictures in the computer so I just made it look like a human penis. That—that’s—horrific.”

Alexander knew what a human penis looked like—like a slug, soft and squishy and smooth. He’d only been with two others before—both Klingons, both older men who had nothing bad to say about his equipment, had in fact said kind things as they had prepared him for mounting.

Certainly he was nothing like a human in that regard, being a bit larger, and made of flexible but firm overlapping plates, forming into pleasant ridges. The soft, moisture-producing furry areas that peeked out from between ridges were scarlet, and, or so he had been told, very pleasant to look at.

“This is how we look,” he said coldly, and Nog looked up in his eyes with a sudden surprised comprehension. Alexander grunted and, grasping the Ferengi by the lobes, he brought his cock up to his mouth.

Nog’s teeth ran over the firm plates of Alexander’s equipment and sent a pleasant shudder through his body. Nog’s mouth was wet and warm and, after a moment of surprise, quite receptive.

Alexander had never been on the receiving end of this action, and he relished it. Nog’s sharp teeth caught on the edge of ridges and Alexander moaned. He found himself gently rubbing Nog’s lobes along with the rhythm of his thrusts, and after a few minutes, he started to stroke himself again.

“No,” Alexander grunted, and Nog stopped. Alexander continued to rub his lobes and Nog continued to suck, and Alexander found myself quite close to finishing.

But not yet.

He withdrew from the Ferengi’s mouth and circled around again. Wordlessly, with an urgent roughness, he picked Nog up by the back of his shirt and adjusted him so he was crouching on the chair. He pulled the Federation briefs down.

Nog turned his head to the side, licked his lips, and spoke in the infuriating, weaselly way that Ferengi always speak in.

“Be gentle.”

And for whatever reason—the human part of him, perhaps—Alexander was. He took Nog’s hips in his hands and squeezed the Ferengi’s firm, small buttocks, and then, gently, guided himself in.

This, he had never done before, either.

The moisture produced by the scarlet fur was perfectly slick and copious, and Nog took him in with a practiced comfort. Alexander moved slow and gentle and found Nog pushing, almost impatiently, against him. Alexander roared as his pleasure increased, and Nog began making wimpering-squeaky noises, as if Alexander were fucking some kind of furry animal.

“My—my lobes,” he begged, urgently. “My lobes.”

As they created a rhythm with their bodies, a sucking wet noise with his penis, the slap of his hips against the tight Ferengi buttocks, he reached up and, scarcely able to concentrate on it, rubbed the round lobes on the Ferengi’s head. The Ferengi’s squeaks turned into one, long, irritating moan, as he achieved climax. Alexander continued to thrust into him as Nog’s noises turned to quieter squeaks.

Alexander was close the, and he gripped the Ferengi’s body as if it were a rag doll, lifting him off the chair with the strength of his excitement. He gripped at Nog, leaving bruises along his ribcage, blood welling wet under his fingernails. Nog’s back was hot from the thrashing it received earlier, and the heat felt sweet against his body. With another roar he came, holding Nog tight until it all left him.

He set the Ferengi down. Nog twisted his head to smile weakly at Alexander.

“Thanks,” he said.

Alexander nodded, pulled up his pants, and swaggered out of the Holosuite, stinking of sweat and blood and cum and awful, sniveling, honorless, irritating Ferengi.


End file.
